


This City Never Sleeps

by minervamylove



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Curse, F/F, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-01
Updated: 2016-04-21
Packaged: 2018-04-07 02:13:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 6,108
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4245606
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/minervamylove/pseuds/minervamylove
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Regina Mills is a graphic novelist whose career is on the rise. At the urging of her agent, Regina has moved from her sleepy Maine hometown to New York City. Miserable and at the mercy of sleepless nights, Regina discovers that her kitchen window faces the kitchen window of one Emma Swan, NYPD. What begins as an awkward nighttime routine (and a clashing of personalities) may blossom into friendship-- or even something more, especially after foster kid Henry comes into their lives.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

It was always at night that Regina found herself really loathing New York City. Between the hours of seven a.m and nine p.m, she could halfway believe the elegant lies she spun about city life: that it was exciting, quirky, a glove-to-hand fit for her edgy, artsy soul. But at night, she could feel alienation creep in with the dark- and then surpass that same darkness, which hesitated at the city's perimeter, unwilling to settle in this land of headlights and neon. Regina sympathized with that darkness, probably more than was healthy. She certainly wished that  _she_ had never settled here. If it hadn't been for the dire warnings issued by her agent (what a strange feeling, having an agent!), Regina would be at home in Storybrooke, happily tucked into her rented carriage-house apartment behind the stately mayoral manor. But Cora had insisted in that almost frighteningly self-assured voice of hers that for Regina, remaining in the small Maine town she loved so dearly would be tantamount to career suicide.

"You're clinging to the edge of oblivion out here, Regina," Cora had said, dismissing Regina's precious kitchen-- lovingly tended, Regina's favorite place in the world-- with a casual wave of her hand."You were lucky to get this book deal. If you want a second, if you actually want to get any staying power in the business, you have to get out of this godforsaken sitcom-fodder small town!" A sick, throbbing feeling in the depths of Regina's abdomen had protested against Cora's every word, but in the end she had let the older woman convince her. Landing Cora Hart as an agent had been a very big deal, and not following her advice would have felt almost ungrateful. 

Now, at one thirty-two a.m, staring at the dingy formica countertops of her new, inadequate kitchen, Regina quite wished that she had fought Cora a little harder on this one. She'd been in the city for two weeks now, and New York at night was not-so-slowly destroying her. Between the sirens, the honking, the flashing lights, and the general carrying on of the other inhabitants of her building, Regina could not get a moment's peace... or a moment's sleep. She had tried discussing the issue with Cora, a native New Yorker, but the agent, true to form, had only responded that Regina's time was better spent working than sleeping anyway. But Regina was a morning person. She was seven o'clock walks and balanced breakfasts and carefully planned midmorning drawing, coloring, writing, and storyboarding. If being a writer and an artist in New York meant that she would have to become the kind of person who drank black coffee at midnight, hunched over and sketching by the light of a desk lamp, then she might as well give up right now. 

_Gotham Webber could sleep in the city_ , Regina thought bitterly. Gotham Webber was the heroine of her first, wildly successful graphic novel. It was a brooding, witty, satirical piece that played fast and loose with modern conceptions of anti-heroism-- at least, according to a Time Magazine article that had lauded Regina as "the Marjane Satrapi/Stan Lee hybrid you never know you needed." Regina hadn't actually been trying to play fast and loose with anything, or be any sort of hybrid whatsoever. She had created Gotham because she found her strong and interesting, and because Regina loved to sketch her strong biceps and pale, wavy hair. But whatever her original intentions had been, it could not be denied that readers found something special in Regina's work and that made Regina happy. Happy enough, even, to move to this metropolitan hell. 

Regina massaged her temples, wishing for something,  _anything,_ to distract her from her misery. Running her fingers up past her eyebrows and hairline, and threading them into her dark hair, she looked up, her gaze sliding over the chipped sink and tiny stove to the kitchen window. 

_Holy--_ Regina recoiled slightly, as though she had been struck. A light had been turned on in the perpetually dark apartment in the next building. Standing near the window with a mug in one hand and a coffee pot in the other was a woman who looked as if she had stepped from the pages of Regina's book. She was lean, with promient cheekbones, long, messy blonde hair swept into a ponytail, and impressively muscled arms left bare by her tight white tank top. She was Gotham Webber come to life. 

Regina barely even realized that she was staring. To be fair, she hadn't been staring long when the blonde's gaze met her own. She gasped involuntarily, and across the narrow stretch of New York air, so did the blonde. Regina remained still for a moment, taking in the sight of the blonde's eyes widening-- she couldn't actually see their color from this distance, but knew somehow, deep within her bones that they were green-- and then turned on her heel, striding from the kitchen while making a concentrated effort not to actually _flee_. She turned off the light without a backward glance, shrouding herself in what passed for darkess in New York, and only then did she collapse against the wall. 

_What the hell was that?_


	2. Chapter 2

While growing up, Emma had always idolized police officers-- which was, admittedly, a little strange for a troubled kid who had been forced to run from the law more than once. But Emma  _had_ always seen things differently from the other kids like her (that was to say, the other kids who bounced from foster home to foster home to the streets and back again). After all, she had reasoned, it wasn't the police department's fault that she kept getting placed with such shitty foster families. The responsibility for  _that_ lay squarely on the shoulders of her social workers. The police officers who would inevitably catch her when she ran away were just doing their jobs, doing something that they thought was right. And ostensibly, when they were done dealing with the unfortunate victims of the foster system, they went on to do things that were actually worthwhile. They were saviors, heroes. 

And of course, there was David Nolan.  _Dad._ Emma's adoption by the kindly officer and his wife had not taken place until just after Emma's seventeenth birthday, a fact that all parties involved quietly bemoaned, but Emma remained convinced that the Nolans were her saving grace. It was all too easy to look into the past see another path that she could have taken, one that would have led to her being a criminal instead of a criminal justice major. But she hadn't taken that path. David and Mary Margaret Nolan had made certain of that, and Emma had known exactly how to repay them. So now, six years after getting her degree (who'd have thought it? Former street brat Emma Swan, a college graduate!), Emma was a proud officer of the New York Police Department.

Proud, but tired. Emma couldn't remember the last time she had gotten home before midnight. Tonight, it was almost one thirty in the morning by the time she staggered up the narrow stairs and jabbed her key at the lock on her apartment door, missing a couple of times before hitting home. She half-stepped, half-fell over the threshold and leaned back against the shabby red-painted door as she closed it. She allowed herself a brief moment of respite, shutting her eyes and tilting her head upward, taking in the sounds of her own breathing and the buzzing of the fluorescent lightbulb above her. She counted down from ten slowly, willing the stress of the day to leave her body. She reached zero all too soon, sighed, and peeled herself off of the door, shucking her jacket and collared blue shirt from her body and leaving them crumpled on the floor.

"No rest for the weary," she muttered to herself, feeling stupid the second that the words left her mouth. Was this what she had come to? Talking to herself in the dim, wavering light of a lousy apartment? Moving through her days like a zombie because she could amost never manage more than four hours of sleep a night? And that was on the nights that she _did_ sleep. Tonight, she already knew, would not be one of those nights. 

Emma wasn't very high up in the ranks of the NYPD. She wasn't one of those homicide detectives you saw on cop shows-- she hadn't been in the department long enough for that. She was just another uniform in the rank and file, another blue-clad figure on the city streets. But that didn't mean that she hadn't seen some serious shit. It had been particularly bad tonight. She had been called in from the station as backup when shots were fired during a narcotics investigation, and had started to develop an uncomfortable feeling in her stomach as soon as she arrived on scene. Drugs, cops, a seedy part of town-- it was all too familiar. While she had never been involved herself, Emma had known plenty of other kids who had turned to drug dealing to surive on the streets, and their stories had rarely ended anywhere as well as hers. Particularly if they got tangled up with one of the nastier cartels. 

It turned out that she had been right to be uncomfortable as she approached the scene. There were two casualties by the time it was all over, both of them young drug runners killed by their own bosses in an unsuccessful attempt to manufacture a hostage situation. Now, in the dark and quiet of her apartment with nothing to distract her, Emma couldn't stop picturing their faces. Two boys, neither past their sixteenth birthday. 

That could have been her. It so easily could have been her. 

Emma staggered into the kitchen, flipped on the light, and immediately buried her head in the nearest cupboard, where she kept the coffee. She had accepted long ago that sleep was impossible on nights such as these, nights when she saw something that she could never unsee. Like it or not, she would be awake all night, haunted by the faces of those two boys. The only thing she could do was begin the process of caffeinating herself for the next day.  _Not very damn heroic,_ she thought grimly as she marched to the sink to fill the coffeepot with water. She stuck the pot under the spigot, turned on the water, and grabbed a mug off of the windowsill.

She gasped, then froze. The apartment across from her window, that perpetually-uninhabited apartment that had been empty, as far as Emma could tell, for as long as she'd lived here, was bright with light-- no half-dead fluorescent bulbs over there. But that wasn't the strange part, the part that made the pale blonde hairs on Emma's arms stand up. No,  _that_ was the woman who was standing in the other apartment, in a shapely black skirt and a gray sweater, surrounded by all that warm, glowing light, somehow looking like a Renaissance painting come to life. The woman who was, inexplicably, standing stock-still and staring right at Emma. But before Emma could really process this, before she could wave or smile or even do something stupid like raising her empty coffee mug in a toast, the light was extinguished and the woman was gone, as if she had never been there at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry they haven't met yet! I really wanted to establish Emma as a character. Next chapter we'll see some interaction, I promise.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so so sorry this update took this long! Work has been insane. But here it is-- hope the fact that it's a long one makes up for being late.   
> Also, be forewarned that David and Mary Margaret are fluffy as hell.

Regina tried to resume her routine dissatisfaction the next day, she really did. She had been thoroughly gloomy for weeks now, and the idea that one random encounter (and was it even that, an encounter?) could change everything seemed ridiculous. But try as she might, Regina could not get the blonde next door out of her head. Like any good writer, once something had caught her interest it was there to stay. While it was certainly debatable whether obsessing about a strange woman was in any way advisable, it couldn't be denied that her brief glimpse of a real-life Gotham Webber had lifted her writer's block. It was her first productive morning since moving to the city, although she was slightly manic as a result of sleep deprivation.

For the first time in years, Regina skipped her morning walk, opting instead to begin sketching the moment that she sat down to her egg-white and sun-dried tomato omelet. She found herself suddenly grateful for the solitude of a place where no one knew her, as she used her left hand to awkwardly shovel eggs into her mouth while her right hand worked itself into a sketching frenzy. Even in the relative privacy of her own kitchen, she wouldn’t get away with such an utter lack of decorum in Storybrooke. Not when anyone from the mayor’s assistant to the mailman to the head of the local newspaper might drop in for an impromptu chat. But here in the anonymity of New York, she set upon both her food and her task with what could only be called a form of savagery, something that she had never before believed herself to possess.

Regina’s drawing technique was at its most freestyle that morning. She made no attempt at storyboarding and conceived of no plot ideas for her loose-lined figures. She just… _drew_ , not even thinking about the outcome, as if the energy from her breakfast was traveling was traveling straight down her arm and into her pencil, bypassing her brain entirely. And the result, as she saw when she put down her pencil a good two hours after she’d started, was without a doubt some of her best work. It was raw, and less refined than her usual style, but there was no denying that there was a power in the fluid lines that surpassed any previous efforts. Her pencil had lingered in all the right places, and rushed through all the right places as well, to the effect that every sketch of Gotham (and indeed, every single drawing _was_ of Gotham) boasted carefully defined muscles paired with an overall looseness of limb that suggested constant movement. There was a humanity in these pictures that Regina had never before managed to capture.

Regina also noticed that she had, however unconsciously, chosen to depict her heroine in a familiar-looking white tank top…

Regina slammed her sketchbook shut, annoyed with herself. “See what you do?” she muttered, standing up to move her abandoned dishes to the sink. “You finally manage to get something done, but you just _have_ to get inspired by the most inappropriate things.”

She spent the next thirty minutes very determinedly turning every single tank top into a jacket and then filling it in with soft strokes of a red pencil.

*

More often than not, Emma Swan and days off were a rather volatile combination. As problematic as police work could be, it kept her busy. The same could not be said for leisure time. Without a task, her mind spun itself in circles and her hands twitched for a lack of anything better to do. For this reason, Emma’s favorite days off were the days that she had some sort of plans, however vague or inconsequential. And today’s plans were more solid than most— she was meeting her parents for brunch. It still boggled her mind sometimes that she had become the type of person whose plans occasionally involved something as upscale as _brunch_ , but she shook off the feeling and headed out the door in her favorite off-duty uniform of jeans and a red leather jacket.

David and Mary Margaret Nolan had moved out of Manhattan when David retired from the police force, citing a desire to get a little farther away from the criminal element that David was no longer career-obligated to fight. They were now the proud owners of a small house in Long Island, where they could escape city life without being too far away from their beloved daughter. Indeed, even with her busy schedule, it was extremely unusual for a week to pass in which Emma did not hop on a train to the suburbs to spend time with her parents. Sometimes she wondered if, had she been the Nolans’ biological child, her family would still be this close. Maybe not, maybe her past and her late adoption were the secret ingredients of the recipe that held them all together. Maybe Emma wouldn’t have this kind of appreciation for parents if she had never known what it was like to be without them.

But “what if” was a foolish game, and Emma adored her parents, even when spending time with them meant tolerating some of her mother’s more… _whimsical_ tastes. Retired elementary school teacher Mary Margaret’s favorite brunch place (yes, in the mythical land of Long Island, there were whole restaurants devoted to brunch and only brunch) was called the Enchanted Forest, and it was more than a little bit too cutesy in Emma’s opinion. The decor was what Emma could only describe as “woodland princess inspired,” featuring birds, fairies, assorted critters, and even a line of seven dwarf decals near the front door.

However, even Emma had to admit that the hot chocolate at the Enchanted Forest was _killer_. She ordered some and proceeded to half empty a shaker of cinnamon and sugar into her mug. Of course, this was precisely when the Nolans decided to make their entrance. Emma hid the cinnamon sugar behind a menu before her mother could see it and critique her dietary choices, then smiled at her parents. As usual, they were the picture of a perfect couple.

David Nolan was not a particularly tall man, but the confidence with which he carried himself more than made up for his average height. It wasn’t a blustering confidence, though, or anything akin to arrogance— oh no. It was the confidence of a man who was one hundred percent secure in his happiness, and as such, who had nothing negative to offer the world. It was this attitude, even more than his clear blue eyes and charming smile, that made him a very handsome man, even once his auburn hair had gone gray. This morning, as usual, he had his arm tightly around his wife, something about the curl of his fingers on her shoulder telling any onlookers that she was the most precious thing in the world to him.

Mary Margaret Nolan fit perfectly under her husband’s arm, as if they were two pieces of a puzzle, destined to nestle close together. She was petite, not a hair above five feet tall, with salt-and-pepper hair cut in a pixie style that suited her kind, heart-shaped face. Her eyes were framed with deep laugh lines and long eyelashes.

The Nolans, already aglow with happiness, lit up even more when their eyes found their daughter, and Emma warmed. Even after eleven years, she would never become accustomed to the fact that two people could look at her with such obvious love. She rose from her booth and was immediately caught in the customary Nolan-Swan family group hug.

Her father planted a kiss on the top of her head. “Hey, kiddo.”

“Emma, sweetie, how are you?” As usual, Mary Margaret was more exuberant, more animated, than her husband. David’s happiness had always been of a quieter sort than hers. “How has your week been? I’ve been watching the news; it looks like it’s been quiet enough in the city… did the force have some quiet time? Or— no, there was that terrible man with the narcotics! Did you have to deal with that? Oh, those poor children…”

“Sheesh, Mom. Can we have the weekly interrogation _after_ you sit down?” Emma’s stomach lurched at the reminder of the previous day’s events, but she kept her tone light for her parents’ sakes.

“Oh, of course, sweetie.” Mary Margaret laughed. “Just head me off earlier next time!”

“Your mother’s becoming chattier in her old age,” David ribbed gently as he took his seat. Mary Margaret gasped and elbowed him indignantly.

“Mom, chattier?” Emma took a sip of her drink and then wiped her upper lip, sure she was sporting a chocolate mustache. “I didn’t think that was humanly possible.”

Mary Margaret waved a hand in the air, as if she were surrendering to the situation. “You get more like David every day, I swear. It’s a conspiracy. I’m surrounded by sarcastic police officers.” David and Emma both had to grin fondly at this.

“Well,” David said. “I’m sure you’ll cope somehow.”

The rest of brunch passed in a whirl of teasing and waffles and powdered sugar, and Emma let herself be soothed by the familiarity. Her sleepless nights and workday struggles just seemed to fall away when she spent time with her parents like this. But even in her present happiness, Emma knew that her worries and cares would be back on her shoulders as soon as she left the Enchanted Forest. She wasn’t a child anymore; she couldn’t be with her parents full-time. She had to keep building her own adult life. But wouldn’t it be nice, she thought as she slurped the last of the cinnamon from the bottom of her mug, if she had someone out there who made her feel this safe?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I know they haven't met yet even though I promised... it didn't feel right in this chapter, and I didn't want to force it. Hope you'll all forgive me!


	4. Chapter 4

“But this is fantastic!” Cora was sporting the closest thing to a genuine smile that Regina had ever seen cross the agent’s perfectly made-up face. There was even a slight possibility that the expression reached her eyes. Wonders never did cease. “Regina, what you’re doing with line in these new drawings… Not even Craig Thompson could pull it off. You’re going places, dear.”

Regina glowed. She couldn’t help it; praise from Cora was so infrequently given. The famed agent hadn’t gotten to be the best in the business by coddling her clients, that was for sure. But ever since Regina had slid the first page of sketches across the tiny cloth-covered table of the bistro where they were having their (very expensive) dinner meeting, Cora had been, by her standards, very positive.

“You may have been onto something with this whole New York City scheme,” Regina admitted, a little grudgingly.

“What did I tell you?” Cora offered Regina a perfunctory pat on the shoulder that was probably intended to convey a sense of camaraderie. It didn’t, but Regina had learned to take what she could get where Cora was concerned. “It’s the proximity to so much success,” Cora continued. “Manhattan is home to the best of the best, in talent and in society.” She paused and touched her auburn coif in a self-congratulatory way. “You’re breathing the same air as the world’s creative royalty, it’s bound to rub off.”

“Thank you?” Cora’s words didn’t sit right with Regina. Talent wasn’t something you could catch like the flu. And that smug little hair pat when Cora had said ‘best of the best’? What was _that_ about? _Stop it, you’re being ridiculous_. Regina mentally shook off her concerns. Cora had always had her best interests at heart, hadn’t she?

Cora rose, gracefully extending a hand for Regina to shake. Regina gave Cora a small smile and opened her mouth to thank her, but the other woman had already turned away and was striding toward the exit of the bistro.

“Oh, and Regina?” Cora’s parting words were uttered without so much as a turn of the head. “You’re finally moving up in the world… you might start dressing like it.” And with that, the chiming of bells on the door signaled her departure and Regina was left smoothing a furrow between her eyebrows as she endeavored to convince herself that it had no reason for being there.

*

As was becoming more and more the norm, Emma had spent the afternoon at her parents’ house after brunch. What else, she reasoned, was she going to do with a day off? Lie around her apartment flipping through the TV channels as cop show after murder mystery after true crime documentary flooded through her living room? _No, thank you._ Better a day filled with chatter, gentle jokes, and her mother’s incessant tea-making. But after a dinner of leftover chicken pot pie and a tenth or twelfth cup of chamomile, it was time for Emma to take the bus back to the city. Like usual, she spent the bus ride idling scrolling through Facebook on her phone, listening to the bus’s hubbub with half an ear and using her peripheral vision to periodically scan for threats. There were certain instincts from her early years that she simply hadn’t been able to kick. But she supposed that wasn’t all bad. Some of her street habits even made themselves useful when she was out on patrol. _Or, you know, on a bus and facing no real threats._ Still, it probably wasn’t the worst thing to be diligent when out and about in Manhattan by oneself. When she got off the bus, she put her phone in her pocket, but continued to glance out of the corners of her eyes.

So it was probably because her instincts were always on high alert that Emma spotted the brunette woman so quickly. She was standing outside the building next to Emma’s own, wearing a knee-length black coat. And although approaching a stranger in the dark was the last thing that Emma’s street instincts wanted, there was something about the woman, about the way she was standing, as if trying desperately to appear nonchalant, that drew Emma in. It wasn’t until she got closer that Emma realized exactly what it was about the woman that had caught her eye.

The elegant brunette hovering awkwardly under the dim fluorescent lights of the building’s overhang was the same woman that Emma had seen the night before. The one who had stood still, illuminated in a window full of light, before disappearing. And oh, God, she was even more unearthly (or ultra-earthly— Emma couldn't decide if she was unreal or altogether _too_ real) up close. Her dark hair and high coat collar drew attention to her elegant cheekbones, and even what had to be Manhattan’s shittiest lighting couldn’t hide the lovely olive sheen of her skin or the depth of her honey-brown eyes, both of which were complimented by the slight flush in her cheeks and the rich color of her lipstick.

It was probably a good five seconds before Emma fully regained the power of speech. “Um. Hi. Sorry, but… um, are you okay?”


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone, I'm SO SORRY that it's taken me this long to update. I started my sophomore year of college this fall and it's been a really busy semester so far. That being said, I've got my feet under me now, and I'm planning to update every two weeks or so depending on my homework load. Once again, sorry for the wait and I hope this chapter is worth it!

Regina watched the blonde draw closer with a mixture of horror and fascination. Had she been waiting for a kindly-looking stranger to pass her by? Yes. Was it stupid and humiliating that her savior had appeared in the form of the living doppelgänger of a fictional character she had created? Again, yes.

“Um. Hi. Sorry, but… um, are you okay?” The blonde woman’s voice was different than Regina had imagined— not that she’d been actively imagining it! It was just that Regina had been mentally conflating her with Gotham, and Gotham was self-assured, with a smart mouth. The woman in front of her was hesitant, almost shy. Regina shook her head. This was not the moment to be obsessing. She had needed help, and the blonde had stopped. That was what she needed to focus on.

“Yes. Yes, I’m fine.” Much to her horror, Regina’s voice came out colder than she intended.

“Oh.” The blonde woman flushed. “Sorry, you just looked… like you needed help. I’m a police officer,” she muttered at her boots. “Force of habit. Sorry to bother you.” She began to turn around, hands in her pockets.

“Wait.” _Stupid, stupid. Why are you stupid, Mills?_ “I do need help.” The words sounded a little grudging, but Regina couldn’t help it. She had always prided herself on self-sufficiency, and breaking the habit of self-reliance was always difficult. “I left my keys in my apartment, and I don’t have a cell phone to call the super…” She trailed off in embarrassment. There it was, just one more thing that Cora had been right about. “ _What do you mean you don’t have a cell phone?_ ” It had been their first official meeting as agent and artist, and Cora had been horrified. Regina, however, had stood firm. Between the landline in her apartment, email, and the fact that she knew everyone in Storybrooke, a cell phone had seemed annoying and unnecessary. But this was Manhattan. She should have gotten a damn smartphone before even setting foot in this damn city.

“You can use mine.” Regina blinked, forgetting Cora. This was truly surreal. She tried not to focus on the other woman’s red leather jacket (red, just like Regina’s drawing!) as she accepted the iPhone in the sturdy case. It was ever-so-slightly slick with sweat, clearly from the blonde woman’s hands, and Regina tried not to wince. She didn’t want to be rude.

Still, the other woman’s face fell slightly. “Sorry,” she muttered.

“No, no, it’s fine. Thank you.” Regina made an embarrassed attempt at a smile, then turned her attention to the phone and dialed her building super’s number. “Hello, Mr. Costa? This is Regina Mills, apartment 7C. I’m afraid I’ve locked myself out… mm-hmm. Yes, I’m outside. Thank you so much, Mr. Costa.” She hung up, handing the phone back to the Not-Gotham. “Thank you so much,” she repeated, this time to the woman standing in front of her. “I just moved to the city; I’m not used to needing a cell phone.” Ugh. Why was she spilling these embarrassing facts about herself?

“No problem.” The blonde gave her a small smile (so unsure of itself, that smile, so unlike Gotham’s smirk). “You really should do something about that, though— the phone, I mean. It’s not super safe to go without one.” Her face crinkled, like she was mentally berating herself. It was an unsettlingly _adorable_ expression for a grown woman, Regina thought. “Sorry. Like I said, police officer. I don’t think twice about lecturing people on personal safety, although maybe I should.” She shook her head. “Anyway. You live here?” She jerked her thumb at Regina’s building.

_Like you don’t know._ Regina was irrationally angry at the woman for the comment. _Like we didn’t stare at each other in the middle of the night, and now you're making small talk._ Although, to be fair, maybe the blonde didn't recognize her. Maybe it was a Manhattan thing, totally normal to interact with strangers in nearby windows.

“Yes,” Regina answered. “I live here.”

The blonde woman offered up a sheepish grin. “Hey, we’re neighbors.” She motioned to the building next door with a casual toss of her head. “I live next door. Well, next… building. You get the idea.” She was officially bumbling, and while Regina couldn’t help but notice that she was, well, _cute_ when she bumbled, it wasn’t endearing at the moment. The blonde _had_ to remember seeing Regina at the window! It wasn’t the sort of thing a person forgot. There had been too much eye contact for that.

“Yes,” Regina said again, her tone considerably more clipped this time. “I’m aware. I tend to remember people who have staring contests between buildings with me.”

The blonde bit her lip and looked down at the ground. Regina’s eyes were drawn to that lip, inexorably and as if against her will. This led to a broader examination of the blonde’s face, if only for a moment. She had round cheeks and creamy, pink-tinged skin that complimented her green eyes like rose petals on a stem. She was younger than Regina, probably in her late twenties.

“I’m sorry,” the blonde mumbled. “I— I didn’t think you’d remember.”

“I have an excellent memory.” Regina said shortly. The door to Regina’s building opened. _Mr. Costa. Finally._ “Thank you for the phone call.” Regina turned on her heel and strode toward the door, but was stopped by the quick tug of a hand seizing her own. The hand was a little clammy from the chill of the evening, so why did a sudden spark of electric warmth run through Regina’s fingertips? She whirled back around to face the blonde, who had an apologetic and slightly terrified look on her face, as though she was regretting whatever impulse had made her grab Regina’s hand.

“I’m sorry,” the blonde repeated. Her large green eyes were earnest, almost puppy-like. “I was trying not to be awkward, but I screwed it up. No new… neighborship… should start like that.” The corner of Regina’s mouth turned up against her will at that nonexistent word, _neighborship_. “I’m Emma.” The blonde loosed her hand from Regina’s just to stick it out again for a proper handshake. “Officer Emma Swan.”

“Regina Mills,” Regina responded. “Nice to meet you this side of midnight.” And with that, she turned away once more and followed the super into her building.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heads up, this chapter starts to earn the story's mature rating. Nothing that explicit, but Emma's feeling a little frisky. Not that we can blame her.

Emma's forehead met her kitchen table with a loud  _thud_. Well, that had been just great. Just  _wonderful_. Just when she thought that her adult life couldn't get any more embarrassing, she had to go and pull a stunt like this. The brunette--  _Regina_ , Emma reminded herself,  _Regina--_ had been perfectly normal and polite, and Emma had been so gobsmacked by the older woman's looks that she hadn't even acknowledged what Regina had called their 'staring contest.' In other words, she had turned what might have been a perfectly normal interaction between neighbors into some sort of... incident. Emma groaned. God, she'd love to blame her social awkwardness on her distinct lack of an upbringing, but that wouldn't be accurate in this case. She'd been struck dumb by how attractive Regina was, and that was that.  _Ugh. I'm like one of those high school boys that apparently can't concentrate in class if a girl's shoulder is exposed. This is ridiculous._

Outside her window, a building away, a light blinked on-- Regina's kitchen light. Emma raised her head and bit her lip, relieved that she had chosen (for this exact reason) to sit in darkness. Regina was peering through her window cautiously as she shucked her coat onto a chair. Strange, Emma would have marked her as a well-ordered coat-closet kind of lady.  _Shit._ Emma laid her head down on the table once more. As if the whole encounter hadn't been humiliating enough, now Emma was sitting in the dark and  _spying_ on the other woman? How creepy was that? She stood up and left the kitchen with her eyes glued to the floor, shutting herself safely in her bedroom before she could possibly catch another glimpse of her beautiful neighbor. 

Despite a rough period of self-loathing and repression in her early adolescence, Emma Swan had known she was gay for most of her life. At least, she'd suspected as much, and then her suspicions had been confirmed at age fourteen when Lily, an equally troubled fellow foster kid and mischievous raven-haired beauty, had come into her life. They'd had a blissful three months together before they'd both been kicked out of that particular foster home-- Lily for stealing, and Emma for breaking the all-important "thou-must-not-hook-up-with-thy-foster-sibling" rule. Of course, Lily was guilty of that too; but French-kissing Emma and putting a hand up her shirt a few times had seemed a small offense compared to the fact that she had almost gotten away with fencing a pair of their foster mother's real diamond earrings. Anyway, Emma was no stranger to her own sexuality. She'd been with women, mostly one-night stands in college. But it had been some time-- since Lily, in fact-- that the sight of a gorgeous woman had affected her so intensely. 

Emma flopped onto her bed. She should do some paperwork, or look at her bills, or even just give up on it all and go to sleep, early as it was. What she  _shouldn't_ do was continue to lay there, becoming increasingly hot and bothered. She shouldn't ease back into her pillows and let her legs fall open... she  _definitely_ shouldn't tug open the zipper of her jeans and let her twitching right hand drift lower, and slip her left hand up under her shirt... 

She shouldn't, but she did anyway, trying to direct her wandering mind to one of her usual sources of pleasure-- Cate Blanchett, Sigourney Weaver in  _Alien_ , Kristen Stewart in a flannel shirt. Tried, and was not particularly successful. But Emma clung stubbornly to those images. Anything to convince herself that she wasn't currently trying to bring herself to orgasm at the thought of a pretty, brown-eyed woman she had only just met. 

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by this Tumblr prompt, because writer's block: http://dailyau.tumblr.com/post/108266545583/our-flats-are-opposite-each-other-and-your
> 
> Also, I got the idea of Regina being a writer from this lovely fic. Check it out!  
> http://archiveofourown.org/works/2437955/chapters/5399234


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